My solitary confinement is showing… just doing some thinking out loud

I’ve been on my own for a long time.  I lived with my family until 1980, bounced around and went to college, then my sister Shawn & I shared our grandmother’s old house from 1982-1986. 

From 1987-88 I lived with my former best friend Dan and his wife Jean, a girl named Fay, and a roommate named Bill after I moved to Pittsburgh. 

Bill married his girlfriend Shelly & moved out in August 1988, a couple months shy of my 27th birthday.  So this past summer marks my 30th anniversary of living alone.  I read recently that while 48% of Americans are single, only 1 out of 4 households are single households.   So there’s a big difference between being single & being on your own.

I suppose I should feel lucky this isn’t the 1920s (where only 5% of people lived alone) or the 1950s when 3 out of 4 people shared the same roof.  Would I have been married in 1925 or the town oddball?  In the 1950s I might’ve been branded a closet homosexual or communist spy for being single or having my own space; I’m not handsome, suave or urbane enough to be a confirmed bachelor.   

What have I got against marriage?  Nothing, honest. 

Anyway, I’m glad I came along when I did, allowing me to just be “Doug”.  And being middle aged, I’m long past caring what anyone thinks and I’m long past anyone caring what my story is.      

(Unless you’re reading my blog, and you’ve been here before.)   

For the most part, I’ve been generally okay with my solitary confinement.  In the 1990s I dated quite a bit, and my sister Shawn would often come up for the weekend—we’d see a movie, go out to dinner (or I’d cook) and sit up late and talk.  The only part I didn’t like was Sunday afternoon, after she left—my “aloneness” would suddenly come crashing down all around me, and I wouldn’t be able to shake it off until the next day, when I’d go to work at my noisy office and see my friends. 

In the 2000s, my dating life had slowed down considerably (and my sister’s weekends were now busy with her new husband) but by then I was more set in my ways, and appreciative of my alone time.  There were times here & there when I’d hear about a married friend’s weekend or vacation or wedding anniversary, and I’d suddenly feel alone and wistful, and wonder what led me down my own narrow path.  But I always shrugged it off.

And then yesterday morning I’m sitting on my couch sipping coffee, hear the loud booms of drums, look outside—it’s my neighborhood’s annual Halloween parade, with a couple of marching bands and a hundred kids wearing costumes, rain be damned.  I put on some long pants and shoes and grabbed my windbreaker, and hurried downstairs to watch.  A couple beside me was waving at the kids (I’m guessing one of them was theirs) and the man asked the woman if she wanted to go to breakfast after.  And without looking at him she said “you’re not getting out of cooking today” and I had to smile & wished I was cooking for someone today too.

I come back upstairs, and my tv (which I left on) is reporting on the “just now” shooting of people at the Tree of Life Synagogue in Squirrel Hill, 10-11 miles from here.  8 men, 3 women dead.  6 wounded.  I sit here and digest this madness alone, and hear the muffled conversation between Ronnie and his girlfriend next door, and wonder if they’re watching this too, and talking about it.

A couple hours later, damn—the return of those mysterious stomach pains I had a couple days ago.  Hot & severe, I sit here and take shallow breaths for 90 minutes, waiting for the pain to calm.  Aside from sipping water, I’m afraid to eat anything for the rest of the day.  My (normally hungry) stomach doesn’t seem to mind.  I wonder if I was married or living with someone, would they be saying “Okay buster, turn off the tv—we’re going to the hospital”.  I’d probably say the pain has let up, let’s wait until it’s a real emergency.  Besides, UPMC Mercy must be dealing with a lot of very real tragedies right now.  

But I live alone, the few people in my life are busy with their own lives and weekends, so I sit here and wonder what is wrong with people like this killer filled with hate, and with me.  

Sometimes it can be pretty difficult being alone.  Shalom.